And That Would Be the Truth
by Lythdan
Summary: From the time of his youth to the time of his death, Kristoph Gavin was always in control...or so he'd like to believe.


**And That Would Be the Truth**

_Sixteen_.

Kristoph bites his nails while he studies for exams; it's not something he's consciously aware of and even if he knew, he would never admit to it. It doesn't matter though, because no-one notices his ragged fingernails, not until one night when his eight-year-old brother has demanded Kristoph stop studying and teach him how to play poker. Kristoph only obliges because he knows Klavier won't stop nagging him until he does so, and the sooner Klavier learns, the sooner Kristoph can go back to studying. It's all rather preposterous anyway—why does an eight-year-old want to play poker?

He wonders what other bad habits Klavier is picking up at school, but nevertheless, he teaches Klavier the basics, and as he looks at his cards his hand sneaks up to his mouth again and Klavier, eyes scrutinising, notices. "_Bruder_ is worried, _ja_?" Klavier's next hand of cards is a royal flush and Kristoph wonders how his little brother became so lucky.

He hides his hands behind his back as Klavier packs the cards up; poker's such a silly game anyway. There's nothing to be nervous about, except for this silly habit of his.

That night, he does not return immediately to his books. Instead, he looks around in his mother's medicine cabinet; she's working late again tonight, but that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters now is that his mother has clear nail polish—it looks cheap, but it will do for now; just like most nail polishes, it tastes disgusting and reminds him to keep his hands away from his mouth. Soon, the evidence of his nervous habit will be gone.

Next month, after Kristoph's exams are over, Klavier asks his elder brother how to play the guitar. Kristoph only plays violin now—he gave up guitar years ago—but he guides Klavier's hands into playing the few notes that he remembers.

Klavier, of course, is a natural. Kristoph's hands go up to his face again, before he drops them back down to his sides. Klavier notices Kristoph's well-kempt fingernails and simply smiles at him. Kristoph smiles back; it's much easier to smile than to admit to jealousy. Jealously is tainted with the aroma of barbarism and Kristoph Gavin is no barbarian.

He'd like to say that he never bit his nails again, but that would be a lie.

_ Twenty. _

He left his family and everything he had ever known behind in Germany to pursue his career in America. The Gavins had lived in a rural township and Kristoph is just beginning to learn how large Los Angeles really is. He's become lost, much to his bewilderment, and cannot find where he's parked his car.

It's too late when he realises he's wandered too far; the moon is already hanging heavily in the sky as he walks purposefully down the back alley, doing his best to pretend that he knows where he's going when he really has no clue. A twig snaps behind him and that's the only warning he will ever receive before he's flat on his back, facing the night sky, not entirely sure what has happened (although he can make a fairly good guess).

It's only then when he realises the sharp pain originating from the back of his right hand and he looks down to see he's bleeding all over his new pants: this simply will not do. However, there _isn't_ much else to do in a situation like this; he doesn't have any friends that he can call upon to pick him up and he still doesn't know where he is. His wallet is missing too now; fifteen dollars and his driver's license gone and all he has received in return is a deep gash.

He doesn't know what to do; fingers drum at the edge of his mouth again and he bites his nails. _Disgusting, vile habit._ It takes him a couple more hours of careful searching (he follows the well-lit streets only now) until he relocates his car and what is his first (and probably last) stroke of good luck in a long time, he doesn't get pulled over by the police on his way home, determined to forget that this incident ever happened.

It's impossible in the end; there's a faint scar that remains of the injury he sustained that late night and even though it's only visible when one looks closely (and not many people do) it will never go away.

He'd like to say that he became better at hiding the evidence of unsavoury events, but that would be a lie.

_ Twenty-five_

The little girl reminds Kristoph of the days of his youth; she doesn't talk much, but when she starts, she tells him everything that he needs to know. She tells him about the outside, about the evil man who had tried to steal her away from her father. He arranges her present: a gift for helping him, he tells her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a different nervous habit to compensate for the one he had eradicated years ago.

He's noticed that she bites her nails; she tells him she only does it when she thinks of the outside. That's how he thought of the present in the first place—if she ever goes outside again, it will protect her before any harm can befall her.

At least, that's what Kristoph tells himself: she will be safe here, in the studio, and if she stays here, then nothing bad will _have_ to happen to her. He fiddles with his glasses again and Vera watches, a frown spreading across her face as she follows the movement of his hand. Kristoph offers a smile while shaking his head from side to side. "Remember that it won't work if you tell anyone what it does." The look on Vera's face transforms from one of confusion to comprehension and Kristoph feels triumphant. Everything is going to plan – this time there will be no evidence left behind, apart from that which he has personally prepared. This case is entirely within his control, nothing left to do now but engage his client in a little game of poker.

He'd like to say that he never doubted his control of the situation, but that would be a lie.

_ Twenty-nine_

The Gavinners' music is blaring from the television again and weary, Kristoph searches for the remote beside him and switches the contraption off. It's nothing, he tells himself: the noise is an unneeded distraction while he is working.

It is just a coincidence, of course, that in all actuality, he had turned the television off after the song had stopped and his younger brother's face had filled the screen, familiar features thanking his family for providing him with his musical inspiration.

There are more important things to dwell on, such as the complexities of this current case, for example: a murder weapon that had disappeared, a victim no one had an opportunity to murder. _It's like magic!_ the detectives had said – but Kristoph Gavin was never one to believe in magic.

It reminded him of a case four years gone now, of a man draped in pink and clubs, of a man who had disappeared from the defendant's chair, of a man whom Kristoph had still been unable to locate. Zak Gramarye was safe, however, as long as he remained hidden away – and as a murder suspect, there was no reason for him to return to the public eye. And as long as Zak Gramarye was safe, then Kristoph too was safe…

His cell phone rings then and before flipping it open he checks the caller ID – it's Phoenix Wright, of course – the man always rung before the meetings at the Borscht Bowl Club, just checking, he claims. _Checking what?_ Kristoph asks himself; Wright claims that he's just making sure that Kristoph's able to pull himself away from his work for long enough to come join him. Kristoph does not trust Wright at all – oh, the man's smile is easy enough, and his clothes are as despairingly shabby as ever from week to week, but despite all of Kristoph's precautions, all of his carefully laid plans, it is clear that Wright knows too much. How much is too much, however? Kristoph cannot know for sure. Better to keep an eye on the man, because even knowledge, without the chance of being applied, is powerless. Kristoph is the one in control now, of course, and he shakes his head gently, as if to shake himself free from his doubts. Silly to wonder about this now, he reprimands himself as he picks up his cell on the seventh and final ring.

He would like to say Wright was powerless forever, but that would be a lie.

_ Thirty-two_

Kristoph Gavin is an evil human being: what else would explain the actions he had taken? What other words are there to describe the man he has become today? It's hard, remembering the times when he was sixteen, sitting exams and taking care of his little brother while his parents worked, optimistic and anticipating the future. But yet, he cannot find himself too unhappy with his current situation – he is sitting in one of his most comfortable chairs, coating his nails with the finest nail polish available – _Ariadoney_. He'd started using it once he'd left his mother's house, the same time he had stopped biting his nails.

He'd seen the articles in the newspapers about him after his conviction, the headlines bold and declarative – some of them said he'd made a mistake, some of them called him a psychopath. It's the latter that Kristoph likes best, not because he entirely agrees, but because he refuses the implication the word _mistake_ produces. 'Mistake' implies that he did something _wrong_, but he only did what he had to do. If that gives him the label of psychopath, then so be it. Sometimes he feels as though he's the only normal person in this place – anyone who thinks there's something wrong with _him_ has never seen the other people here, the ones that he saw on his way in, their eyes mad and frothing with the injustices they have been served. He can't remember if any of them had been clients of his.

He looks at the small table, catches a glimpse of his reflection in the surface of the photo frame, and he smiles, as _really_, if it weren't for the conspicuous lack of the badge at his lapel, he looks as though he could be standing behind the defense's bench at the courthouse, where he belongs. His gaze passes the glass then, and at the photograph behind it. Ah, Vongole. _Is Klavier taking good of you?_ he asks himself. Vongole was his best friend, after all.

He'd like to say that he felt regretful for the way things had turned out, but that would be a lie.

(If there was only one thing he could change, he would have gotten rid of Phoenix Wright while he still had the chance).

_ Thirty-seven _

Five years is how long they wait for execution in a normal situation, and while ever since _that_ day, the day when a group of _commoners_ had decided his fate, Kristoph had felt that his situation was anything but normal. It seems it can't be helped, however – the day has come.

Kristoph knows that Klavier's there somewhere, beyond the security glass, but everything is a blur now – Kristoph's not wearing his glasses anymore. There's nothing to be seen now, there hasn't been for a while. He wonders, sometimes, if he's going mad. The thought makes him laugh. Mad? _Mad_? The world has always been mad, in all these years of his life – since the time of his birth until now, the world has never been _fair_. Not to him. Not to Kristoph Gavin. The noose slips around his neck – not long now. It'd always been Kristoph against the world, and he'd just done the best that he could.

Some would see this situation as a defeat, but Kristoph didn't desire to. That would mean that Phoenix Wright had won – that he, Kristoph Gavin, had lost control. There had only been that one time, really, in that last trial – the shock, mainly, that Phoenix Wright could have done something so ridiculous as to let common, everyday people in charge of the law, let the common population administer the scales of justice. After all, evidence was everything, and the power of the law was absolute: Phoenix Wright's attempts at revolutionizing the court system would ultimately fail. It had just been an elaborate scheme, hadn't it, on Wright's part to try and outdo Kristoph at his own game? Wright's obsession, really, bordered on the unhealthy. Kristoph would like to say that he never lost to someone like Phoenix Wright, but that would be a lie.

The noose tightens, and then, moments later, Kristoph Gavin hangs. The last breaths he takes are not those of the man with the cool and calm façade that he'd grown accustomed to over all these years, but those of a man who'd lost control, who'd perhaps never had control in the first place – and that would be the truth.


End file.
